


Work It

by james



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angsty crack, Crack, Kink, M/M, Paperwork, what is this I don't even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't do his paperwork.  There's a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sidney Sussex (SidneySussex)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidneySussex/gifts).



> I swear, I don't even know. I sat down to write silly crackfic kinky porn and I got angst. And crack. Cracky angst. I am blaming Sidneysussex because she...um...didn't talk me out of it.

Clint sits in a chair behind a desk which is cleared of everything except for a stack of papers on one side and a stack of manila folders and bound reports on the other. In the center is a neatly arranged array of black gelpoint pens -- official S.H.I.E.L.D. issue and the sort which is preferred ("required") for filling out official S.H.I.E.L.D. forms.

Clint looks over the desk again then back up at Coulson, who hasn't moved from the door after he'd locked it with a very resolute 'click' behind him. Coulson is now standing there, looking at Clint with an expression that says maybe, just possibly, this might be somewhat sort of serious. 

Clint looks at the stack of papers again, and yes, he recognises them as the things he hasn't been filling out and turning in on time. Or at all.

"I'll get around to them," he starts.

"Some of those are two years old," Coulson interrupts. "Which is why I provided you with the reports for those missions which were filed by everyone else, to refresh your memory. And before you ask, no, you do not get network access to the digital copies because if you have a computer then you will sit here and play Minesweeper for three days before we let you out."

Clint shrugs. "And I'd probably take a nap or two. Really, Coulson, isn't this a little extreme? If you've got the reports," he taps the stack beside him, nearly causing them to slide sideways off the desk. He has to snag them quickly and set them back in place, giving Coulson a look which is not guilty, not at all, but. Yeah. "You don't need my addendum. It'll mess up the pretty binding." He taps the stack again, more carefully.

Coulson just narrows his eyes. "You will complete your reports, Agent Barton, and you will do so before you are permitted to leave this office."

Clint waits. Coulson just looks at him expectantly. Clint asks leadingly, "...or?"

At that, Coulson reaches down for the long, rectangular case that has been sitting at his feet. Clint doesn't recognise it, but Coulson picks it up and opens it with a swift roll of his thumb over the lock. He pulls out Clint's favorite bow.

Clint blinks. 

"Or I'm going to... How sturdy is this bit?" Coulson touches the bottom cam, and Clint flinches. Coulson's eyes flicker to him, quickly. He makes a soft 'hmming' sound, then says, in a tone that is not at all casual, "I could just give it to Thor to play with." Clint doesn't react, and Coulson adds, "Or to Tony to _tinker_ \--"

"Goddammit!" Clint slams his hand on the desktop. He glares at Coulson -- tells himself he could buy a new bow, have one custom made, even go back to Minsk and get Navarov to make him a new one, all smooth and perfect and he could bring Natasha back bottles of the good vodka.

But the one in Coulson's hand is broken in, and there's a worn spot where his palm fits exactly right, and he doesn't even think about correcting for the spin of the top cam anymore because it's automatic, as natural as breathing, and when he uses some other bow he has to remind himself to un-correct.

Clint picks up a pen and looks at the top report.

Then he thinks about why he doesn't like doing his reports and tries not to look at Coulson. He tells himself -- hell, there's a desk, pretty big one, and Coulson is all the way over on the other side of the room. Clint takes the first piece of paper off the stack and bargains with himself. He'll do a couple, maybe three, then he'll see if Coulson is willing to give him a bathroom break.

He scribbles his way through the top portion of the first report, pausing only long enough to _write legibly_ and _I'll bring them back for you to correct errors, you know that, Barton_ and he rewrites one bit and why the hell didn't Coulson at least give him a pencil so he could erase?

He writes as fast as he dares and he tries not to think, then realises that isn't working and he tries to think about the report and the mission he's filing on, and about Coulson standing by the door _watching._

Turns out that's not helping at _all._ Clint shifts in his chair despite being perfectly able to sit still for hours when necessary, but normally he's not sitting in a bare office with a desk full of paperwork and Phil Coulson staring at him intently.

Clint realises his hand is shaking and he slams the pen down, first report almost mostly filled out. Top page, at least. He looks up, mouth open to ask for a glass of water and Coulson glares and brushes his hand down the bow's riser. He raises an eyebrow in challenge and Clint swallows and looks back down at the report.

He doesn't think he can do this, but he's not going to sacrifice his favorite bow without a fight. He picks up the pen and tries again, messing up and dear God but he's going to have to start this one completely over. He looks around.

"Blanks are at the bottom of the stack, Barton."

Clint just nods and he finds them, is grateful and horrified all at once at the number of blanks to replace the ones he's going to ruin. He fills in the top and he gets as far as "Latitude/Longitude of Incident" and he bites his bottom lip.

"Is there a problem, Agent Barton?"

There's a tone in Coulson's voice which should be dismissive, but isn't. Should be harsh and angry and bored, but isn't. He's almost curious and understanding like maybe he's suspected Clint can't read or is allergic to wood pulp or was tortured by accountants and has been trying to hide it. Clint wants to laugh. He would really, really like to be somewhere else right now.

Clint just shakes his head but his hands are trembling and that never, ever happens -- when he has his bow. He doesn't have his bow. Instead he has something he has tried so much not to think about. Never on-duty, at least, never in the field or at headquarters or in transit from either. Only when he's away from everyone and everything and in the privacy of the rat-infested shithole apartment he rents to avoid being billeted with other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents does he ever think about this.

When he's alone with nothing but his thoughts and his left hand and he thinks about-- Clint slams the lid on that box, but he's staring at the next line and it's all in the kind of bureaucratese that was invented for the sole purpose of filling out forms no one will ever read. Clint taps the pen against the line, tries to read what's supposed to go there but all he can think about is Coulson watching him. Clint's behind the desk and there are all the trappings of a normal office and every fantasy he's ever given himself to indulge, because you pick the one thing you know you can't have and you let yourself pretend, and fantasies fill in the blank spaces where there is no chance ( _no hope_ ) of reality coming in to crash the party and ruin things. By now he's had two years of perfecting his fantasies until it turns out all he needs is an office, a desk, and a stack of forms and he's lost.

Well, having Coulson be the one standing there probably doesn't help. Or helps too much. Clint can't think clearly, anymore.

Clint thinks that maybe he should have just done his paperwork and turned in his forms. But he'd never been fond of doing paperwork, just overly-fond of having a man in a suit fuck him over a desk, and he'd got so wrapped up in thinking about that those first few weeks after meeting Agent Coulson. At first it was just that he hadn't wanted to do his reports right there in the main office for anyone to see and ask why he was so distracted.

Funny how that didn't work out, Clint thinks. 

"Barton?" Coulson's voice doesn't quite interrupt his thoughts, because Clint is just seeing the papers scattered across the desk and feeling the press of the pen in his fingers. It makes him think of how it would feel, pressing into his back because sometimes he imagines they don't take time to clear the desk first, and Coulson slams him down and Clint has bruises shaped like the edge of a stapler and imprints of pads of post-its on his back and-- 

Clint jumps up from the chair, away from the desk because there is no way he's going to-- He'll go to Minsk and he'll tell himself to forget this bow ( _forget everything_ ).

"I just have to--" he begins, not sure if he can even make it to the bathroom before he comes in his pants, and he realises his mistake in standing up when Coulson just _looks_ at him. He feels his face flush red, skin burning because he's been teased before for much worse reasons, but normally he avoids getting laughed at by the object of his fantasies.

"I must admit, I hadn't expected that to be your reason," Coulson says, and Clint closes his eyes. He's not getting out of this at all, now, he knows, and there is no fucking way he's doing his paperwork now because he's going to leave and never work for S.H.I.E.L.D. again.

He'll mail Natasha her vodka.

"Clint," Coulson says again, and somehow he's gotten closer without Clint noticing and, oh yeah, his eyes are still closed. He pries them open and Coulson has walked towards the desk, and he's setting Clint's bow down, carefully. It's lying there, between them, and Clint could grab it and run to safety.

Coulson is looking at him, his face is thoughtful and there's no quirk of laughter on his mouth and -- Clint thinks he's misreading this because Coulson is walking slowly around the edge of the desk. Clint feels his heart stutter.

Coulson sweeps the paperwork off the desk, and crooks a finger at Clint.

~~~

Afterward, when Clint's bow is stowed away in Phil's case and the reports have been gathered back up, Phil just looks at him. "Would you be willing to complete your reports on time with my assistance, then?" he asks. His voice is warm and debauched, and Clint doesn't remember the last time he saw the other man so relaxed.

Clint rubs his back, feeling the impression of a pen he'd been lying on. His ass is sore and his legs feel like Jell-o and his head is insisting that when he wakes up alone in his apartment, he will still have Coulson's wrath to face because he hasn't filed a report in months.

But he blinks again, and feels Phil's hand brush his cheek, softly as if he were made of wire and wood.

Clint smiles.


End file.
